On Perspective
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: John/Sherlock. The detective needs to keep things fresh to keep his mind from slowing.


It happened at dinner, which almost hadn't happened in the first place. John had a hard enough time getting his flatmate to eat anything, especially when the beanpole man had draped himself so inelegantly over the arm of the sofa, plucking his violin while his upended curls nearly swept the floor. Nonetheless, John had come back with two settings of Chinese takeaway instead of one on the off chance he could force a pair of chopsticks between Sherlock's teeth.

The man in question had apparently swept a long arm across the table in the sitting room, upended old newspapers and toppled books (books that John had carefully poured over for him two nights ago, bookmarking any references made to Polycythemia Vera in any of the medical texts both of them had lying around) in order to change his perspective again.

_Perspective_, he had said in his expected dry tone, c_oerces the mind to likeways find alternate viewpoints_. He'd said with his legs over his head and crossed at the ankles against the wall behind the sofa.

This time, still in bathrobe and pajamas, the world's only consulting detective sat cross-legged on the sitting room table, notes peeling from the violin in a thoughtless scratch. Sherlock didn't acknowledge his entrance, as usual, and John eyed him incredulously up and down before he held up the bag as a half-hearted offering.

"Got you something, too."

"I don't eat during a case," he muttered flippantly, even going so far as to wave John off like a child.

John's mouth pulled down into a heavy frown and he took three brave steps forward. "And I'm your doctor."

Not completely accurate, Sherlock didn't care for hospital or clinic visits of any kind and had never taken one in the time he and John had lived together. Sherlock allowed it, however, remembering when he had nearly caught pneumonia and had only avoided a week of invalidity due to John catching the signs early on and forcing him to be even the slightest bit more healthy. It'd still been a rather nasty cold; John had held Sherlock down while Mrs. Hudson jabbed a spoonful of medicine into Sherlock's protesting mouth.

"What could that possibly have to do with my eating a takeaway with you?" Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers at his lips as he spoke. "If even half the grease you've gotten all over the inside of that bag is any testament, it can't possibly be in any sort of _favor_ to my health."

John gave his perfunctory exasperated sigh. "It'd sure do a hell of a lot for _mine_." He had made the turn for the kitchen, where he'd store Sherlock's untouched meal in the fridge as he always did-it would disappear sometime late the night the case was solved, as if Sherlock expected John to think an enormous rat had scurried along and nicked it.

Sherlock then gave the reply of grunting acquiescence, standing full up on the table with his curls in the ceiling before he took a nimble hop down to the floor. John turned back, eyebrows high in surprise.

"It's all rather dull, now that I've thought about it, anyhow," he mumbled, dropping the violin and bow into his chair and holding a hand out expectantly. "I'll do my domestic duty, Doctor."

John shook his head, somehow smirking.

This left John stuffing dumplings in his mouth and Sherlock picking uselessly at a plateful of noodles.

The detective noticed, of course, when his friend had foregone cleanliness in favor of fitting as many dumplings into his mouth as possible, and sighed at the effort it would take to ignore. A speck of _something_ had been ignored on the edge of John's mouth, and whether or not John was ignoring it on purpose it annoyed Sherlock to no end. So, with great theatrics as he dropped his chopsticks, Sherlock licked the pad of his thumb and leaned across the table.

John went scary-still when Sherlock buffed whatever it had been off his cheek. Still halfway across the table, Sherlock knotted his brow quizzically as he inspected the sudden change. John had gone rigid and... angry? His face had gone bright red, on any account, and his mouth pressed into the thin line Sherlock had come to associate with his fits of anger. Perhaps talking him out of a tirade would be his best bet.

"Really, John, it shouldn't be _my_ job to-"

Sherlock jumped when John slammed both of his hands down flat on the table. He expected a shouted lecture, or a shouted anything. What he did not expect was that exactly two seconds later, John Watson shot to his feet and leaned across the table to smash his lips against Sherlock's. Dumplings went skittering across the floor as one of Sherlock's hands searched for any sort of purchase to combat the pressure of John's face.

And then something interesting happened. Sherlock opened his mouth in attempts to talk John down, and John took the opportunity to invade with his tongue. That was something new and moist and very distracting from whatever Sherlock had been about to say. The detective's long fingers curled around the back of John's head in a move he could only call instinctual. Then Sherlock made a very odd sound, and did his best to emulate John's attentions to his mouth.

Pulse hammering in his throat at the encouragement, the first of John's knees came up to join him on the table, completely knocking the dumplings to the floor. One hand nearly ended up in a bowl of noodles, moving to make room for his other knee.

In control of his mouth for the barest second, Sherlock uttered: "John-"

Either the table quaked under him, or John had gone weak in the knees. He pressed forward even more determinedly.

Then, Sherlock's eyes popped open and he shouted: "JOHN!"

Balance completely compromised, John fell face-forward into Sherlock, who tipped over backwards in his chair with his long arms windmilling. They hit the ground with a crack, and pain clouded up in John's eyes as his teeth clipped Sherlock's hard chin and jaw. He scrambled off the bony man and away, holding both hands to his mouth and letting loose a long strong of muffled curses, fetal and rolling. Sherlock held two fingers to the new, stinging wound and found it bleeding.

But he laughed, loud and long.

After he'd grabbed the disinfectant and some bandages, John grumpily attended his teeth marks in Sherlock's face. The younger man, of course, hadn't removed himself from the chair on the ground (despite having landed on a dislodged dumpling), instead commenting on the change of perspective and how the idea had suddenly occurred to him that the blood test results had been faked.

John tested his aching front teeth with his thumb, still all pink from losing his composure. He was quite ready to ask Sherlock to forget the whole incident as well as they could, until the voice on the ground spoke up.

"Now, John, could you do that again?" He folded his hands on his chest, closed his eyes again. "I think I've found a new diversion."

* * *

AN: Hello friends, an old-school Sherlockian who just fell in love with the new series. I've never really shipped Holmes/Watson until this series, and it took me a little by surprise how much I love these boys. I've not gone the slashfic route before, and it just happened that my first fic goes humor on me. I don't know if I'm going to have any other ideas for these two, but this was very fun to write. Thanks much for reading, lemme know how I did on My First Slashfic, and leave some love if you feel inclined! Oh, most of all, stay awesome!


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